


16 Months

by CanonCannon



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Anal Sex, Awkward Romance, Blow Jobs, Daryl with insecurity, Drug Use, First Time, I LOVE THIS SONG - Freeform, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mention of Hate Crime, Paul with commitment issues, Racism, Rimming, Some angst, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, mention of murder, minor character death (off-screen)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2019-10-19 07:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17596973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanonCannon/pseuds/CanonCannon
Summary: Daryl gets a new cellmate.





	1. 16 Days

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter is my entry from the Infinite Realities, Infinite Desus Challenge--I didn't delete it from the challenge, but I'm reposting it here so folks don't have to go hunting for it if they haven't read it yet.
> 
> Quick lexicon for non-U.S. readers...  
> fish: new prisoner  
> SHU: solitary confinement  
> C.O.: correctional officer, i.e. prison guard  
> rec: free time  
> fencing: reselling stolen goods  
> max: a maximum security prison, where prisoners have fewer freedoms  
> shiv: blade fashioned in prison from random objects, like sharpened toothbrushes or bits of metal  
> smack: heroin

 

**Day 0**  

Daryl doesn’t think twice about Dwight being transferred to a different cell block until fucking Rick Grimes mentions it during his monthly visit.

“Heard you got a new cellmate.”

“How the hell did you hear that? They just moved Dwight yesterday.”

“I have my ways,” the police officer says evasively. “How’s the new one working out?”

“Don’t got anyone in with me yet, but there’s a bunch of new fishes in the holding tank.” He pauses, narrowing his eyes. “You have something to do with Dwight’s transfer, Grimes?”

“Least I could do,” Rick says after a minute, shrugging. “Since you won’t let me help you in any other way.”

“Nah, the least you could do is fuck off,” Daryl replies, but he can’t quite hide the gratitude in his voice. Officer Grimes has done alright by him, and living with someone who reported directly to the Governor had been shit.

Daryl figures he’s at least earned the right to be left alone.

 

**Day 1**

 

His new cellmate is fucked.

Or, more accurately, he’s going to end up _being_ fucked. He’s exactly what the perverts call ‘fresh meat’: small, pretty, with big eyes and long lashes. He’s even got long hair, for Christ’s sake.

Paul Rovia sticks out in Terminus Prison like a sore thumb.

Prison is going to be hell on earth for this guy.

Daryl tells himself it’s not his problem, that he should mind his own business. His own reputation will only keep him safe in here for so long.

 

**Day 2**

 

“You’re shitting me.”

Usually Daryl isn’t chatty, but getting to know a new cellmate is a matter of survival, so he keeps up his part of the conversation while he evaluates the likelihood of Paul slitting his throat in his sleep.

“I’m not!” Paul protests with a grin. He’d been doing sweaty sit-ups in the cell, but now he’s just leaning against the wall.

So far his cellmate is an arrogant asshole, but he doesn’t seem violent and he’s kind of funny. Daryl knows he could do a lot worse.

“Nah, you are. Ain’t no fucking way. Climbed to the fifth floor without a ladder, rope, or some kinda pipe? What, like Spiderman?” The fish must be trying to establish some kind of street cred, to appear more impressive than he is.

Well, he’s going to need it.

“I swear to you, I can do it. Not on a glass wall, but anything with halfway decent hand-holds, even just windows, I can climb. I’d show you in the yard, but one of the guards would probably shoot me down.”

“Yeah, good call.” Daryl doesn’t believe a word of it, but he humors Paul anyway. “So how’d you learn all this ninja bullshit?”

“I did gymnastics and martial arts as a kid, parkour as a teen. The group home was next to a YMCA, and there were actually some pretty good teachers there.”

“The YMCA taught you how to be a fancy cat burglar art thief.” He can’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Paul laughs and leans forward to punch his leg lightly. The contact startles him. “It did. I’ll prove it to you somehow, Dixon. I’m _very_ good at what I do.”

Daryl turns away, blushing.

“What are you in for?” Paul asks.

“Murder.” Might as well be blunt about it. “Killed my father.”

“Really? What happened?”

“The fuck you think happened? It ain’t complicated.”

“So why’re you in here instead of max?” Curious blue eyes watch him carefully.

“Good lawyer,” Daryl grunts. Another thing he owes Grimes for. “Now shut your trap, Rovia, I’m going to sleep.” He pulls his shirt off and moves to brush his teeth.

Paul’s eyes catch and hold on the scars across his back but he doesn’t say anything, so apparently he _can_ keep quiet when he wants to.

 

**Day 3**

 

Daryl isn’t there to see it, but apparently some smartass comment lands Paul in the SHU for 24 hours before his first week in prison is up.

Big Tiny laughs about it when he tells the story at dinner. Daryl pokes at his watery mashed potatoes and smirks in spite of himself. Implying that old Warden Greene’s ‘piece’ isn’t ‘loaded’ anymore wasn’t exactly a clever joke, but he’s willing to bet C.O. Rhee’s reaction was fucking priceless.

Paul is definitely posturing, and it’s not a bad strategy—most prisoners, Big Tiny included, will like you a little better if you give the guards some crap from time to time.

It’s nice to have the cell to himself for a night. Daryl uses the relative privacy to jerk off, trying hard to keep his mind blank as he touches himself.

 

**Day 4**

_Little shit is going to get himself killed or worse_ , Daryl thinks, watching as Ford, one of the guards, escorts his cellmate back towards their cell. Paul is a head shorter and a lot leaner than almost every single meathead catcalling him, but he seems completely unintimidated by their leering as he’s walked along the corridor that leads back from the SHU.

Paul smiles at Daryl as he gets closer, rolling his eyes at the attention.

Damn it. Daryl can't help but like him.

As always, he hates himself for it.

 

**Day 5**

 

Paul barely makes it into the yard for rec the next day when three of the prison's biggest assholes, Gorman, Martin, and of their babyface ringleader Gareth, herd him into a blind corner.

Scowling, telling himself he’ll only do this once, Daryl meanders towards the blind spot as if by accident.

The bastards are still playing with their prey, standing around in a vaguely threatening half-circle. Gareth is toe-to-toe with him, looking positively ravenous.

"Take a walk, Dixon," Gorman spits as soon as Daryl walks into view.

"Fuck off, I'm meeting my dealer here." Daryl leans against the brick wall, pretending complete disinterest in the others but ready to fight if he has to.

This time, his presence is enough—they grumble, one of them musses Paul’s hair roughly, but they leave. These pricks are cowards, the lowest of the low. They won’t take unnecessary risks, and pissing Daryl off certainly qualifies.

Daryl breathes out slowly and tugs a cigarette from his pocket.

Paul doesn't even seem phased. "Dealer, huh? What kind of product could he get me?"

Daryl turns to tell him to shut the fuck up and sees the guy pulling his hair into some kind of bun on top of his head. Fucking hell, how stupid can one person be?

"You should cut that," he grunts, gesturing.

"My hair? Why?" He gives Daryl a little half-smile. Probably smirking at the idea of the grimy redneck checking him out.

Daryl glares at his feet. He doesn’t know how to say _"Because as soon as they get the chance, those pricks are going to grab you by that hair, pull you into a dark corner, and rape you.”_

Instead he says, "Too noticeable. Gets attention."

“I think I'm ok. But thanks for the fashion advice."

Oh god, he's short, pretty, _and_ thinks he’s tough. Kid's going to get eaten alive.

Daryl tells himself again that he doesn't care.

 

**Day 6**

 

He still finds himself keeping an eye out for his idiot cellmate.

Shit, it’s not like he has anything better to do.

 

**Day 7**

After just a week, Daryl can’t deny that he likes Paul better than he should, so he does his best to ignore him when they’re stuck inside the cell together. It's easy enough. Daryl's spent his whole life training himself to ignore guys like that, guys that draw his eye a little too much.

Apparently Paul doesn’t like being ignored, though, because he does not seem to want to shut up. He jabbers on about his fencing contacts and jobs he’s pulled. If half of what he says is true then he would be a goldmine for Merle, exactly what the Governor’s organization is looking for in Atlanta.

Leaning back on his bunk, Daryl thinks idly about making the introduction, but decides against it.

He doesn’t owe Merle a fucking thing.

“Could you shut the fuck up? I’m trying to read,” Daryl says, and Paul finally shuts his mouth.

Later, though, Daryl follows his cellmate to the mess hall—and sure enough, Gareth and his crew step out menacingly from around a corner near the laundry a second after Paul walks by.

Yet again, they don’t try any shit with Daryl there, but Gareth eyes them suspiciously as they pass.

Paul casually scratches his ear with his middle finger. It’s not obvious enough for one of the goons to pick a fight over it, but Gorman sees and clenches his jaw in frustration.

Once they round another corner, Daryl punches Paul in the arm, hard. The moron just grins at him.

Trying to keep Paul out of trouble helps him avoid thinking about his own shit, the eight years left on his sentence and the poor chances that Merle will even still be alive when he gets out. Daryl knows that’s part of it.

But with Paul grinning stupidly at him, he realizes that he also doesn’t want to see this place beat the other man down, turn him into a shell or a ghost the way it does some men—the way it had Merle, and his daddy, and every other idiot Dixon that had gotten involved with the Governor and lost years of their life to the system because of it.

 

**Day 8**

 

During rec, Daryl usually works out in the yard or reads in his cell or the library. The librarian, Axel, is just about the only person he’s friendly with in the whole damn place.

The Governor’s gang tried to buddy up with him, especially Dwight and Martinez, but he shut that down straight off. He knows they still keep watch over him; it’s their asses on the line if anything happens to him in here.

Now Paul is almost always somewhere nearby as well, usually talking Daryl’s ear off, asking questions, bragging about his own past exploits. Daryl can’t exactly blame him—it’s safest.

But then occasionally Paul disappears, and when Daryl finds him again he’s someplace he has no business being. He talks some to Martinez and Schumpert, encroaching on space usually reserved for the Governor’s stooges. He lounges around near the warden’s office one day, then by the door to the visiting rooms. Guards are always shooing him off to the yard.

Inevitably, he gets another day in the SHU for somehow winding up in a restricted area without permission.

Daryl jerks off again that night. He’s too tired to pretend, so he lets himself think about Paul’s mouth while he does it. When he comes, he imagines it streaking his face.

He doesn’t know why the other man is getting under his skin so much. Sure, he’s pretty, but it’s more than that—more shameful than that.

Daryl could forgive himself if he just wanted to fuck the guy.

 

**Day 9**

 

For that first week Daryl figured that maybe Paul was sneaking around the prison to avoid Gareth's psychos. It would be the smart play.

At other times, though, Paul seems stupidly negligent of them. Sometimes he seems to be spoiling for a fight, even when outnumbered three or four to one.

The next time Daryl steps in, it’s only Gareth and Gorman messing with him, following him to the showers close to the end of rec time. They're smirking like sharks when they pass the cell a few seconds after Paul saunters out with his towel.

If the kid had any goddamn sense he'd shower early, when there were plenty of others around.

Sighing, Daryl grabs his towel and sandals.

By the time he gets to the bathrooms, Paul is against the wall with one arm twisted behind him. He's still talking calmly somehow, not begging, and Daryl's impressed in spite of himself.

"Man, can't you do that shit in your own cell?" Daryl says loudly, tossing his towel on a bench and moving to one of the shower heads.

Gorman startles and lets go of the kid's arm. Gareth spins around and glares. “How many times you gonna stick your nose in, Dixon? Huh? Is the little bitch even putting out for you?” His snakelike eyes dart to where Paul is stepping away from the pair, and it’s clear he wants to snatch him back. “You could get in on this, man. I can share.”

"I'm looking to get in on a fucking shower, dickwad. Leave me outta your shit."

Again, the bastards are too afraid of a fair-ish fight to risk it. They sulk their way out of the room, Gorman knocking heavily into Daryl's shoulder as he goes.

Paul still doesn’t look shaken up, and Daryl’s beginning to wonder if he even understands what exactly Gareth and his dogs are after.

"They think you're a punk,” he says gruffly, stripping and turning on the ice cold shower. Beside him, Paul does the same. “Gareth and his gang. Should keep outta their way, man.”

"Um." Paul gives him a blank look.

Daryl keeps his eyes above shoulder level and explains, “A fag. He thinks you're a fag.”

There’s a long pause. Daryl scrubs his hair roughly.

"I am," Paul says finally, obviously angry. “So fucking what?”

Daryl whips his head around to make sure no one's walked in in the last few seconds. "Jesus Christ. Don't matter if you are or you ain't. Unless you wanna be a fag with _him_ in particular, or one of the other sacks of shit around here, keep that to yourself and stay the fuck away from him."

Paul cocks his head curiously. For a moment Daryl thinks he’s been too transparent, that the other man has him figured out, but Paul only says, "You _are_ following me around." When Daryl doesn't respond, he adds with a huff, "I can take care of myself."

Snorting, Daryl towels off, keeping his gaze directly in front of him.

 

**Day 10**

 

One thing Daryl’s realizing about Rick Grimes is, he does not know when to quit.

“You shouldn’t _be_ in there,” he says for about the millionth time, this time over the phone. Daryl isn’t sure why he calls the policeman anymore, but Grimes asked him to do it every now and then, so he does whenever Merle’s too busy for their weekly talks. “You wouldn’t even have to mention Merle’s name, just testify to what your father was like when you were a kid. That combined with the evidence of self-defense, a judge might-”

“Trial’s over, Grimes.”

The frustrated sigh sounds like static over the shitty connection. “Merle should be the one-”

“Man, you think they’d have let Merle off the hook this easy? Reduced sentence, medium security…” Daryl snaps his mouth shut. He has to be more careful; Grimes is a cop, not his friend.

“I know you didn’t do it. It was obvious from the second I arrived at the scene.”

It’s weird as fuck, but he thinks maybe Rick likes him. Not in a queer way, the man is married with a kid. Just like… bros or something.

Daryl sighs, pinching his brow. “I did it, Rick. Don’t matter what you think you know, I’m guilty as charged.”

There’s a long silence; Daryl knows better than to think he’s convinced the other man.

“How’s the new cellie working out?”

Jesus, no one actually says ‘cellie.’ “Better than Dwight.”

Rick just snorts and changes the subject again, telling him how Dale and Jim from the garage are doing. They found a replacement for him. It makes Daryl sad to think about, but he knows from the times Merle’s been locked up that that’s how prison is. The world keeps spinning without you.

 

**Day 11**

 

Twice more Daryl stops his cellmate from getting his ass beat or worse, no longer bothering to pretend it’s accidental when Albert gets in his face about it later.

"Man, you got pansies willing to fuck you for protection already, why you gotta go after him?"

"Boss likes him," Albert shrugs. "So mind your own business. Being Merle Dixon’s baby brother isn’t gonna block a shiv."

“Nah, but it’ll make damn sure the bastards who get me are next in the ground,” Daryl sneers, and turns to walk away.

Two steps and he’s nearly jumping out of his skin—Paul is leaning against a wall right around the corner. He falls into step, and they walk together in silence for a few minutes.

“I really can look after myself,” Paul finally says. Daryl's skepticism must be obvious, because Paul scowls at him and crosses his arms over his chest. "I can. I don't need a guard dog.”

“Done told you, I ain't following you.”

“You are," Paul teases, lips curving into a smile. "You aren't very good at it. I could teach you some tips if you like."

"You'll teach me to follow you better, huh?” There's a weird edge to the conversation that Daryl doesn't understand. He doesn’t like it. “What, you got a posse watching your back now? Some kinda faggot gang?”

They step into their cell. “Do you really have to use that word?”

“Faggot?”

“Yeah. That.” Paul stares up at him, all signs of flirting gone.

“Why not? You said you were queer.”

“Yeah, well, neither of those words is exactly my label of choice.”

“What the fuck does it matter what I call it? You like sucking dick.” Daryl feels his face flush. "Or whatever."

“A lot of people find those word offensive, Dixon. Come on, you have to know that.”

“Rose by any other name, man." Shrugging, Daryl turns to pick up his book.

Paul lets the topic drop. "What are you reading?"

Daryl holds it up for him to see.

"Forest Plants of the Southeast and Their Wildlife Uses," Paul reads aloud. "Huh. Seriously?"

"What?" Daryl frowns at the book, not sure what's wrong with it.

"Just... unexpected."

"The hell'd you expect, then?"

"So is it any good, then, Forest Plants of the Southeast and Their Wildlife Uses? Should I check it out next?"

The teasing tone is back, and it doesn't escape Daryl that the snarky bastard didn’t answer his question.

"Nah. Book's bullshit,” he replies, even though he knows Paul is just messing with him. He’s wanted to vent to someone about the fucking book for days, and Merle hadn’t answered the phone.

"Oh yeah? How come?"

That smile, the way Paul leans in close to examine the book—Daryl hates it. His whole body floods with adrenaline as he replies, “S'got mistakes."

"Like what?"

Shifting away slightly, Daryl flips back through the pages. "Like, this plant? Says it blooms in June. Load of crap. It blooms in late July unless it's a real hot year. And for this one," he flips to another entry, “it says the flowers are white or yellow. No mention of the orange ones. See? Bullshit. There's more, too."

Glancing up, Daryl sees that Paul's expression is... odd. It clears after a minute and he laughs, jostling Daryl with his shoulder. "What, were you some kind of florist before? A park ranger?"

Defensive, Daryl scowls."I hunted. Spent a lot of time in the woods." He doesn't say how much he loved it, how closely he always observed the plants and wildlife. How he'd sketch those same flowers sometimes, when he was a kid.

Just remembering the peaceful feeling it gave him back then depresses him, caged as he is now.

They're quiet for a couple of seconds, and when he looks up, Paul's expression has softened. "Show me the rest."

"Huh?"

"The other mistakes in the book. I want to see them."

"Why?" Daryl asks, eyes narrowing.

"I just... want to see."

So Daryl shows him.

 

**Day 12**

 

The next day they’re playing chess when Paul brings up another uncomfortable topic.

“So… your brother.”

Right, Paul had heard him talking to Albert. “What, you know him?”

"Know of him," Paul says. “Everyone does. You don't seem- don't be offended, but you aren't even close to what I'd expect from Merle Dixon’s brother. I didn’t even realize you were from _that_ Dixon family until yesterday.”

Daryl suspects that’s a lie—his connections are well known around the prison—but he doesn’t call his cellmate on it. He's far too used to this, being judged against his family and found wanting. “Yeah, well. Merle always says he knew from the time I was three that I didn’t have what it takes to be some kinda hit man or," he waves a hand at Paul, "fancy burglar, whatever. I just wanted to be left alone, you know? Worked in a garage, was trying to save up to buy my own place someday.”

"So you two aren't close?" Paul leans forward, intent, elbows on his knees. It’s his turn to move. Daryl has to prompt him to look at the board.

“Nah, we’re close."

"And he’s—Merle Dixon, the right-hand man of one of the biggest mobsters in the state—you two are close, but he’s a-ok with you not doing him… you know, favors?” Paul’s eyebrows are high, challenging. “You just live your own life, and no one gives you crap about not supporting the family business?"

So apparently Paul's heard all about his daddy and uncle, too. Sighing, Daryl moves another piece on the board. “Told you, he knows I ain’t the kind. Merle practically raised me, even made me finish high school—first Dixon in history to do it, probably.” Daryl sucks his teeth before admitting, “He says I’m too fucking soft.”

"So he never wanted you in the business in the first place. He's... he's a bad man but a good brother.”

Frowning at the inquisition, Daryl decides he’s had enough. He leans back. "Checkmate, by the way. Shoulda paid closer attention.”

"Yeah, I should have,” Paul murmurs. He looks distracted, clearly thinking of something else.

 

**Day 13**

 

Paul spends the whole of rec time the next day wandering the yard talking to other people. For once he stays out in the open, with lots of people around, so Daryl just sits against a wall in the sunshine and tries to finish his shitty book. He’s tempted to write in corrections, but marking up the book might get Axel in trouble.

It looks like Paul’s trying to get chatty with Martinez and Schumpert again. That’s good, he needs more friends in here. Martinez is a smart choice, too. People have noticed that Daryl and Paul eat meals together—that’ll help Paul get in with the Governor’s crew, even if Daryl himself is standoffish.

Daryl doesn’t admit to himself that he feels lonely without the chatty man hanging around him. He knows he probably offended Paul with that ‘faggot’ comment, even it he’d been cool about it yesterday. The other man has no way of knowing that Daryl’s a fag as well.

Daryl kind of wants to tell him.

He shuts down the impulse immediately. He knows where it comes from, and where he wants it to go.

If Paul know’s he’s a fag, too, then Paul might- he might want-

Turning onto his stomach, Daryl stubbornly focuses on the book.

He’s interrupted moments later by Paul rushing towards him.

“Dixon! You need to- Martinez, he just told me-”

But he doesn’t get any farther than that. Ford steps over behind him, radio crackling in his hand. “Shut it, Rovia. Dixon, up. I’m supposed to take you to the Warden's office,” he says. Daryl barely has time to register the look Paul gives him—he's visibly anxious, maybe even upset—before Ford is pulling him along.

Daryl shakes him off and walks in front of him. Another guard cuffs his hands before letting him in to see Warden Greene, who’s sitting solemnly at his desk.

"Sit down, son," the old man says, rising.

_Son?_

To Daryl's utter confusion, the Warden walks out of the room. He’s left alone in the office.

A moment later Grimes steps in. Stupidly, Daryl wonders why he’s two weeks early for his visit.

“Daryl," Grimes says, and Daryl knows just by the tone that he doesn't want to hear the rest. The officer keeps talking anyway. "I'm so sorry, Daryl, but Merle- we don't know what happened, but he's been found. His... his body’s been found. We’re investigating, but it looks like…”

Daryl doesn't remember the rest of the conversation. He doesn’t remember crying, or Rick gripping his shoulder, or Ford uncuffing him and sending him back into the main prison.

He doesn't remember trading his whole stash of cigs to score smack from the cholos in the west bathroom.

The next thing Daryl knows, it’s just after lockdown and he’s pushing Paul against their cell wall and shoving his tongue in that soft mouth.

“No, no, calm down," Paul murmurs, turning his face away. He won't let Daryl kiss him but he's not fighting him, either. Daryl's larger body covers his, pressing him against the wall, hard dick against Paul’s stomach.

Daryl is far too fucked up to think about anything besides how badly he wants this.

Paul’s not hard, but Daryl knows he can fix that. He tries to kiss him again. Paul gently cups his face, forcing his head back to he can look into Daryl’s blown eyes. “What did you take? Can you tell me that? I need to know how much, if I should get you to the clinic-”

Daryl drops to his knees and paws at the front of the other man’s uniform, but Paul just follows him down, kneeling beside him. "I know, Daryl. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Come on, calm down. That’s not- not what you need right now.”

It doesn't register that there's no way Paul _can_ know--how could he? The only thing that registers is that it's the first time his cellmate has called him by his first name.

Tears come, sudden and unexpected. He’s too high to stop them, all his inhibitions melted away, and he sobs like a child. Paul positions himself against the wall with Daryl's head in his lap and lets him cry into his shirt.

“M’brother died,” Daryl chokes out finally.

Paul just nods. “I’m sorry. I know you loved him. And he must have loved you, too. I’m- I’m so sorry, Daryl.”

He cries some more, coming down from the drug. After making him stand at the sink and guzzle down some coppery water, Paul puts him into his bunk and sits on the ground beside him, not talking, just combing a hand absently through his hair.

Embarrassment starts crawling its way up Daryl’s spine. He’s letting another man pet him, for fuck’s sake.

People had probably heard them.

In a few hours it doesn’t matter anymore, though. Paul’s taken away the next day.

  

**Day 14**

 

Ford fetches him from the cell before breakfast. Through a horrific headache Daryl watches them go, surprised by the sad look he gets from Paul.

He doesn’t have the energy to care. The guards won’t let him sleep through breakfast so he stumbles through it, not eating, then collapses into his bunk.

It’s not visiting day, but just before lunch Daryl is led to the visiting room anyway. He’s high again, so he walks like a fucking zombie.

He’s the only prisoner in there. Rick waits at a table with a couple of Subway sandwiches and paper cups of water.

“Daryl, no. Don’t do this,” he says immediately, looking horrified and rushing forward. Daryl wonders what he sees: red eyes, oversized pupils, pale and clammy skin? Probably all three. Rick is a good cop, he knows that first hand.

The thought pisses Daryl off.

“Why’re you always so goddamn interfering, Grimes, huh? You just met me, you ain’t _kin_ or-” Daryl breaks off. He wants to shove the other man, hit him, but somewhere in his head he knows he owes Rick better than that. He’d be in a maximum security lockup, maybe even death row, without the officer’s help.

“That’s true, I’m not. But I am your friend, Daryl. I know the kind of man you are, who you've tried to be in spite of your _kin_ , and I admire that man. Don't let this place take him from you, especially now.”

“What's so fucking special about now?”

Rick sighs and gestures to the chair. “I’ve got some things to explain about Paul Rovia. Think you’re sober enough to pay attention?”

Electing not to answer that, Daryl sits. He’s not hungry, but he picks at the sandwich while Rick talks.

“I’m gonna start from the beginning. You good? Need a soda, or something else with some sugar? Ok. Now remember I just got briefed on some of this last night—some of it I knew for awhile.” The officer fidgets uncomfortably and pulls out some notes. Daryl gets the feeling he doesn’t want to look at him. “Probably won’t surprise you that the FBI’s got an active investigation into the Governor and his boss, a man named Negan. The murder of someone as high up in the organization as Will Dixon brought them swarming. And when you confessed so quickly, with no personal history of violence, they decided that you were most likely covering for someone higher up in the organization with a record. Merle was the obvious option.”

Rick pauses, giving him a hard look. When Daryl doesn’t react, he continues, “So they thought that you might be a weak link, someone stuck in prison for a crime he didn’t commit—someone they could flip to testify against the Governor. But they went wrong thinking your father’s death was a hit, something professional. Coldblooded.”

It’s hard to care about all of this, but he assumes Rick will eventually tell him why Merle was murdered, so he tries to stay focused. “So what you’re saying is, you’re better at this than a pack of feds.” Daryl snorts weakly.

Rick doesn’t smile. “I told our liaison that I thought they had it wrong, that I didn’t think you were involved with the Governor. Told them that however clean the scene looked, I suspected Merle’s reasons were, uh, personal rather than professional. But they had this famous profiler, Jacqui Johnson, pushing them, and her research said you were likely a silent partner, maybe using the garage to launder money.” Rick looks away quickly. “Her profile said you were, uh, kind of a loner. You know, no girlfriends.”

The implication takes awhile to penetrate Daryl’s hazy mind. When it does he knows he should be angry, but instead he wants to laugh. Maybe it’s the drugs. “So they sent in a fa- an FBI agent to pump me for information. _That’s_ why Dwight was moved, so Rovia could charm some answers outta me, right? Christ.”

He remembers Paul asking questions about his past, always seeming more interested in Daryl himself than the answer. Remembers Paul talking up his own skills, his contacts in Atlanta, making himself look like an investment while distracting him with light punches and claps on the shoulder. And he remembers how startling the gentle touches had felt after months of being jostled or shoved as his only human contact.

Rick winces but doesn’t argue.

Between Merle’s death and the smack in his system, Daryl isn’t sure he even gives a shit about being played for a fool. “Hell, it worked, too. He just didn’t get the answers he expected.”

“I tried to tell him. I didn’t get a chance to brief him before he went undercover, but I managed to get a meeting with him once, when he was supposedly in solitary. He’d already gotten some information from Martinez to confirm that Merle was the one who killed your father, so he signaled the guards to pull him out so he could update his team. But he was still convinced you were involved somehow.”

“Him informing on Merle- that’s why they killed my brother, ain’t it? The feds started sniffing around?” There’s fury gathering in Daryl’s voice.

Rick douses it before it can grow. “No. They weren’t going to make a move until they had more information from you. Merle… he was going to turn himself in, Daryl. He couldn’t live with himself, knowing you were in here. The Governor found out somehow, then killed him to keep him quiet.”

Daryl shoves himself away from the table and turns blindly towards the door back to the prison. Ford’s right outside and stops him before he can get anywhere, lets him slump down against the wall of the corridor, and Rick crouches beside him. “You’re getting out of here, Daryl—because of Merle. Ok? He wrote it all down. What happened to you as a kid, how he found out about it that night. How and why he shot Will Dixon. Between that and Martinez spilling to that FBI agent, you’re getting out of here. Merle made sure you’d be able to go free. The paperwork will go through tomorrow, maybe the next day at the latest.”

Daryl doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure he even wants out anymore. It will just make Merle’s death more real.

He realizes suddenly that he doesn’t have a family. The Dixons have finally self-destructed.

“Search his cell,” Rick tells Ford as the beefy redheaded man helps Daryl up. “He got a hold of some kind of drug.”

 

**Day 15**

 

Ford finds the smack but it doesn’t matter, it’s easy enough to get more. Daryl shoots up right after breakfast, because why the fuck not.

Gareth's boys grab him less than an hour later as he's walking past the laundry. They pull him inside, at least six of them. Laundry shifts don’t start until the afternoon so the place is empty.

"You seriously going to do this? Man, you know Martinez and them'll cut you down," Daryl spits. His words are slurring, and he feels loose and slow. He gets an arm free and manages a weak punch at Gordon, but someone else restrains him again within seconds.

He wants to say more, make more empty threats, but then a dirty undershirt is being forced into his mouth and knotted behind his head.

"You didn't hear? Merle turned on the Governor. Got himself killed,” Gareth whispers from behind him. He licks his ear, then continues speaking quietly into it. “They don't give a shit about you anymore, baby brother.”

Then Daryl's being shoved to the ground and held there. Hands are at his shoulders and waist, and at least one of the men has a shiv. Daryl curls on his side and someone kicks him in the gut, then the side of the head.

He thrashes wildly, knowing it's pointless but unable to stop fighting. A sharp, animalistic noise comes from his throat.

It’s possible that he blacks out for a second because all at once he can move again, and Paul and Ford are standing over him, beating the shit out of Gareth and his goons. Paul, or whatever his real name is, takes out four of them on his own with some kind of crazy karate moves. Ford just pepper sprays Gareth and tazes another gorilla, with a lazy, “Mm-hmm, fresh roasted chestnuts just in time for the holidays.”

Paul leans over Daryl, brow creased, and it occurs belatedly to Daryl that he might be hallucinating or unconscious. He doesn’t mind if he is. It’s undoubtedly more pleasant than whatever Gareth and his boys are doing to his body right now.

“Guess you can take care of yourself after all,” Daryl slurs up at his former cellmate, just before passing out.

 

**Day 16**

 

He wakes up in the SHU. His head is bandaged and there’s a tray of food on the floor, what passes for menudo and rice with mushy carrots on the side.

The smell alone makes him throw up. He flushes his vomit, then the food.

There’s no way of knowing what time it is, so Daryl goes back to sleep on the plastic bunk.

He wakes up when the fake Paul Rovia steps into the tiny cell. He’s wearing in slacks and a nice blue button down, a stark contrast to Daryl’s bloodstained gray prison scrubs.

His hair is also in that damn messy bun again. Daryl hates how good it looks.

“How are you feeling?” not-Paul asks. He’s carrying a tray of food and sets it on the floor beside the bed before leaning against the opposite wall. “I wanted to say again, I’m- I’m so sorry about your brother. I wish we’d approached him directly, offered protective custody.”

Daryl gags at the smell of the meal, but manages not to throw up.

“You should be released later today. You probably figured this out already, but after what happened yesterday, you’re in solitary for your own protection. The doctor said you were fine, you just needed to sleep off the heroin.” He has the gall to sound disapproving. Daryl imagines kicking him in the nuts. “They’ll take you straight from here to processing as soon as the documentation of the court order for your release arrives.”

The man pauses, trying to meet Daryl’s eyes, so Daryl looks away, glaring vaguely at the door. He still doesn’t answer. Maybe it’s childish but he can’t help it—his pride is stinging. He’d stuck his neck out for this guy and it had all been a set-up. Hell, he had probably been laughing at Daryl the whole time, the stupid redneck who thought a damn FBI agent wanted him hanging around.

“Officer Grimes says your old boss—Dale, right?—is ready to hire you back. Apparently your replacement was a shitty mechanic. Do you have enough money for a hotel or something, until you get settled again?”

“Like you ain’t seen my bank account?” Daryl rasps, finally goaded into a response. “Look, Paul, or whoever the hell-”

“It is Paul… um. Paul Monroe.”

“Great. Nice to meet you,” Daryl snarls impatiently. “Look, why’re you here? Ri- Officer Grimes said y’all know I ain’t no use as a witness, Merle and my daddy never told me shit about the Governor’s business. You already knew I didn’t kill nobody. So why’re you still trying to play nice or- or whatever the fuck it is you think you’re doing with me now? I can’t help your investigation.”

Paul is eyeing him intently, blue-green eyes wide. “Ah. Well. It’s not my investigation anymore, for one thing. I’m being reassigned after I’m deposed regarding your innocence in your father’s murder. I, uh. I blew my cover. When Martinez spilled that the Governor was going to order a hit on your brother—he wanted me to know you wouldn’t be protected anymore, probably trying to intimidate me into joining them officially—I just- well, you remember. I ran straight to you rather than signaling the guards to pull me out.” Paul bites his lip. “I knew you could call him directly, that you had a better chance of warning him in time than law enforcement. It was… impulsive. They won’t trust me again, and now the Governor’s men know my face. Agent Espinosa and her team take over next week.”

“You- you tried to save Merle?”

Paul nods slowly. “Obviously Martinez had old information, didn’t realize the hit had already gone down. I’m- I’m sorry. I keep thinking if I’d focused on ingratiating myself with them instead of-”

“Instead of making bedroom eyes at me,” Daryl supplies, more bitterly than he intends. Paul had tried to save Merle. It had been too late, but he’d tried.

“Daryl…” the agent begins awkwardly, but Daryl cuts him off again.

“Nah, I get it, alright? I know it weren’t personal. The Governor’s a piece of shit, you were trying to stop him.” Taking a deep breath and wishing he’d rinsed out his mouth more thoroughly after throwing up, Daryl finally meets Paul’s eyes. “We’re good, man.”

Paul smiles. “That’s… I’m glad. Thank you.” He turns towards the door.

Daryl shifts on the bunk, leaning his head against the wall. It still hurts something awful. Maybe he’ll try to get some more sleep before they come to let him out.

Christ, they’re really letting him go. He’s going to be free again, eight years sooner than he’d ever dared to hope. He’d be back in the Georgia wilds before bear hunting season ended. For the first time, he feels a flicker of warmth over that.

Paul stops suddenly at the door. For a moment he stands still, facing away, then he twists to look back at Daryl. “Listen, I work in Atlanta, and I- I… fuck it. Do you want to have coffee sometime?”

Blinking, Daryl wonders if he’s hearing this right.

“I know, I know, and you can punch me if I’m reading this wrong, but- but it’s all above board, ok? You can’t testify against the Governor. I’m off the case regardless. And most of what I told you about myself in there wasn’t actually a lie… besides, well, the obvious. So if you don’t completely hate me-”

Daryl throws back his aching head and laughs.

Eventually, when he can speak again, he says yes.


	2. Months 1, 2, 3, & 4

**Month 1**

He’s let out of prison on a Friday, still feeling like shit from the all smack he’d shot up. He’s determined not to develop a habit, so after Jim drops him off at the trailer to pick up his truck—Merle had been using it while he was locked up—Daryl’s first stop is to buy some weed from a small-time dealer that hangs out at a nearby dive bar.

He also wants to procrastinate, because his next order of business is to claim Merle’s body.

It’s a weirdly bureaucratic affair. He’s completely numb while talking to the creepy girl in a weirdly old-fashioned dress about coffins and services and shit. Cremation is cheapest and easiest so Daryl takes that option, knowing that Merle hadn’t given a crap one way or the other what happened to him after he died.

(“Ain’t no heaven,” he’d mused once, high and loquacious on the prison phone line. “I’d like to think there’s a hell, for Daddy’s sake, but it seems too good to be true.”)

Daryl couldn’t have afforded a burial even if Merle had had some kind of notion about it. His bank account is damn near empty. His assets are limited to the truck, Merle’s bike, and the family’s shitty old trailer standing in a crowded trailer park just outside of Atlanta.

Merle had sold the furniture from Daryl’s old apartment, supposedly to put the money into Daryl’s account at the prison. He must have used it for drugs or whores instead, though, because it never came through at the prison and it sure ain’t appearing on his bank statement.

It’s late by the time he’s done at the funeral home, so Daryl reluctantly drives back to the trailer park. He sits in the truck for 20 minutes before going in.

The familiar scent of his childhood, stale smoke and spilled beer and musty carpet, is overlaid with something rotten. The power had been turned off sometime after Merle passed. Rick had arranged to get it back on before Daryl was released– _gotta pay him back for that_ –but apparently not before the food in the fridge had rotted.

 _Just for a couple weeks_ , he thinks to himself, stepping slowly into the setting of most of his nightmares. _Get a paycheck under my belt and I’m gone._ He’d be back to work at the garage on Wednesday. Dale would have let him start Monday, but Daryl had figured he’d need some time to get settled–buy some toiletries, probably some new clothes. The shirt they’d returned to him at the prison is uncomfortably tight across his chest and shoulders, to the point that he cuts the sleeves off messily with a hunting knife almost as soon as he gets through the trailer door. He doesn’t know what Merle did with his old clothes, but they probably wouldn’t fit his more muscled frame now anyway.

The place is a pigsty—pizza boxes, beer cans, and cigarette butts litter the floor, along with piles of Merle’s dirty clothes. The table is covered in junk mail, fast food wrappers, and packets of condiments. There’s a trail of ants and the sharp scent of spoiled milk in the kitchen.

_Back to my roots._

It’s depressing as fuck. Despite being exhausted, he starts collecting trash into three of the larger fast food bags, then switches to trash bags once he finds them sitting next to a can of beans and box of instant mac and cheese in a cupboard.

–

After three hours, he’s managed to throw away the rotten food in the fridge and clear the piles of trash from the kitchen and living room. The beans, mac and cheese, a bottle of hot sauce, and a jar of pickles in the fridge are the only options for dinner. Too tired to contemplate finding a pan, Daryl eats three of the pickles and goes to turn in.

He’d forgotten to buy a toothbrush, and he isn’t about to use Merle’s, so he rubs some spearmint toothpaste on his teeth using a finger. Then, stripping down, he automatically starts towards the room he used to share with Merle.

–

He lays between Merle’s greasy sheets for five minutes, staring up at the ceiling he remembers so well from all the sleepless, painful nights of his childhood. It’s the memory of being dragged out of bed by his ankle and stomped on that drives him out of the room and onto the lumpy couch.

–

He’s woken up by a loud knock at the door. When he opens it, two women, barely out of their teens, start trying to walk right past him into the trailer.

“Hey, hey! What’re you-”

“Where’s Merle at?”

“Dead.” Daryl’s too startled by their appearance to say it gently.

The girls stop trying to get by him, at least. They stand on the steps and look at each other, then back at him, then back at each other.

“You taking over from him, sweetheart?”

“I’m his brother,” Daryl says, nonplused.

“See, we had this arrangement with Merle…” The taller girl, a redhead, steps right up into his personal space. “We’d keep him company once a week, and in return-”

“I ain’t got any drugs.“

“Well what the hell are we supposed to do, then?” the short blonde says, glaring up at him. “He owed us some from last time, we want our-”

“Yeah, and people in hell want slurpees,” Daryl snaps. “I can’t help you.”

He closes the door in their outraged faces.

–

Over the next couple days, he buys $20 worth of groceries, puts half a tank of gas in Merle’s bike, and throws out almost everything in the trailer. He only keeps the basics he needs to survive, kitchen utensils and the least stained blankets he can find. His only sentimental exceptions are the crossbow and the vest with the angel wings that had been Merle’s favorite.

He finds a stash of oxy under the bathroom sink and downs three of them, just for the hell of it. The rest of Monday is a pleasant blur.

Tuesday he goes to Walmart and finds a pair of jeans on sale, then adds a toothbrush, a pack of underwear and socks, three t-shirts, and a button-down long sleeved shirt that’ll look decent enough for when he goes out trying to find a place to rent. His old shoes will have to do for now, and he can tough it out without a jacket. It’ll be spring in a couple of months, anyhow.

Getting back to work Wednesday is a benediction: the feelings of normalcy, of honest paid work, and of not having to watch his back every damn second.

Dale drags him out for wings and a beer after, to ‘celebrate,’ he says. The older man pays, then insists on giving Daryl a week’s worth of pay up-front.

Tears glint in Daryl’s eyes when he takes the cash, embarrassed but too desperate to say no.

–

He gets a cell phone in the middle of the month, after his first regular paycheck, but he doesn’t call Paul.

**Month 2**

Apparently now he gets a beer with Rick a couple times a month, instead of Rick visiting him in prison.

It’s fucking weird, being friends with a cop, Daryl had called him to pay him back for the electric bill, and next thing Daryl knew, they’d become buddies or something.

Daryl’s never had someone like that before, someone good who wanted to hang around. He’d agreed to the first beer, then the second, just for the novelty of it, but soon enough he admits that he likes Rick. He’s a straight-shooter, he’s kind, and hell, Daryl owes him a lot.

Rick even has him over to his house—lets him hang out with his _kids_ , for fuck’s sake, even knowing Daryl’s a fag and a redneck and (kinda sorta) an ex-con. Daryl never thought he liked kids much, and Carl barely looks up from his video games to greet him, but Judith’s alright. Apparently Rick’s shit at baseball so Daryl tries to teach her to pitch while Rick grills up some hamburgers. His wife, Michonne, who had been Daryl’s lawyer, is making salad inside.

It’s all so wholesome, and even though Daryl knows he’ll never have something like this, he notes it all down in his mind as if to recreate it later.

–

“How’re things since you’ve been out?” Rick asks after dinner, when they’re alone on the porch, beers in hand. He hadn’t mentioned Daryl’s stay in prison around the kids.

“Alright.” Daryl frowns at the manicured green lawn. “Someone, one of the Governor’s thugs, spray-painted some shit on the trailer. But I’m outta there anyhow. I sold it to a junker, got an apartment.”

“Daryl, that’s serious, if they’re harassing you. Were there threats, or-”

“It’s fine, man. I’m closer to the city now, outta their territory.”

“But Negan has people all over Atlanta.” Rick leans forward, concern is his ice blue eyes.

 _He’s so fucking handsome_ , Daryl thinks, then turns away, hating himself.

“I can get you that FBI liason’s email—Monroe, right? He’s not on the case anymore, but he could-”

“I’ve got his number,” Daryl says, and if only he could have said it without blushing, Rick probably wouldn’t have thought twice about it.

“ _Oh_ ” is all he says, but Daryl still wants to crawl into the gutter, bringing that kind of filth into Rick’s clean suburban home.

“Sorry.”

“You two been talking, then?”

“Nah,” Daryl says quickly. “That’s- he- he gave it to me, his card, put it in with my discharge papers at the prison. But I ain’t called him.”

“You should, he’s a good guy. The way you met would be one hell of a story to tell the grandkids.”

It doesn’t sound mocking, the way he says it, but it _has_ to be. Daryl knows it has to be.

“’Bout time for me to head out.” Daryl sets down his unfinished beer.

“Daryl-”

“Got work early.”

“Daryl!”

Daryl stops on the lawn, not turning around.

“Want to watch the Falcons game next week?”

Christ. He doesn’t understand this man at all.

“Sure.”

“I’ll text you,” Rick says, and Daryl continues down the drive.

**Month 3**

After two full months and some change on the outside, Daryl’s starting to get his legs under him again.

He’s been in his new place for six weeks, and he likes it–a small, one-room walk up, two floors above a diner. The owner, Carol, and her daughter live in a larger apartment on the second floor. Rick knows them somehow, and had known they were looking for a tenant. His unit had probably once been connected to hers as a spare bedroom or a large attic, but now it has its own entrance, a flight of rickety metal stairs out in the alley. He can barely fit in the shower and the kitchen is just a hotplate, a microwave, and a half-sized refrigerator, but its _his_. He luxuriates in the privacy.

Most respectable places would run a background check, or at least a Google search. After a call from Rick, Carol’d said she didn’t need to, so long as he agreed to help with any heavy lifting she needed done around the place.

She’s already had him down for dinner three times. Daryl isn’t sure what to make of her, but her cooking is damn good, so he accepts any time she asks.

From the trailer he’d taken the television, Merle’s ratty old mattress, plus the card table they’d used in the kitchen and two old wooden chairs that had belonged to their mama. That was about all that would fit in the tiny apartment, and besides, he's glad to be rid of the rest of it.

The point is, shit’s finally settling down. He’s still living hand to mouth but he can relax a little, stop taking every shred of overtime Dale can send his way. 

That means has more time on his hands to think. He doesn't like it. His mind wanders to Paul at random moments, like when he’s under a car examining an oil pan ( _cracked, cheapest to get a new one_ ) or when he’s in line at the Burger King drive through ( _he’s getting his pre-prison gut back_ ) and, most often, when he’s in bed at night jacking off before falling asleep.

**Month 4**

On a Saturday night with absolutely nothing special about it, Daryl drinks half a dozen beers and dial's Paul's number.

Paul, thank God, doesn’t answer.

“Hey,” Daryl says to his voicemail. “You probably don’t remember, uh, giving me your number. But- uh. This is Daryl... Dixon. From prison.” Fucking hell, great, remind him of that. Spiraling into a panic, Daryl adds, “I was wondering if there’s anything new about the, uh, case. Investigation. Negan and the Governor. So. If you get a minute, call me back. If you want.”

He hangs up before he can make it any worse.

\--

“Daryl! Good morning!”

“Who’s this?” Daryl says through his hangover, aware that he sounds grumpy.

“Paul Monroe? You called last night... um, pretty late.”

Shit.

"Yeah, Paul. Sorry about that. I got to thinking about the, uh, investigation.”

He’d got to thinking about his dick, more like. He didn’t give a shit about the investigation anymore, he was just glad to be out of it.

“I understand. I’m glad you called, we never did get that coffee.”

 _Does that mean he still wants to?_ “Sorry. Been real busy.”

“That’s alright,” Paul says, and he sounds like it really is alright-- _of course it’s alright, not like he’d been waiting around on pins and needles. Guy like that probably has men lined up around the block._ “So do you want to get coffee, or maybe a drink? We can talk about the investigation, if you want.”

There’s something about his tone, like he knows Daryl’s fibbing about wanting an update on the investigation, that makes Daryl’s jaw clench. Goddamn him. Daryl had forgotten what a little shit he could be.

“If it ain’t a bother.”

“It’s not. How about next Saturday? I’m out of town this weekend at a conference.”

Of course. Because Paul’s got a job that sends him to fancy conferences out of town.

Because Paul is way, way the fuck out of Daryl's league.

“Saturday’s good. Sure it ain’t a bother?”

“I’m the one who asked you on a date, Daryl,” Paul says, just laying it out there, and Daryl blushes. “I’ve got a place I’ve been wanting to try, I’ll text you the address.”

“Right,” Daryl says, already half-dreading it. “See you.”

“Bye,” Paul says, and Daryl hangs up before turning his head and grinning into his pillow.


	3. Months 5 & 6

**Month 5**

Daryl isn’t sure he’s been on a real date in his life, assuming that fucking random guys in the parking lot of a gay club doesn’t count. He knows enough to know that he should try to look nice, though.

The day before getting a drink with Paul, Daryl splurges and buys a new pair of shoes. They’re simple black sneakers, nothing fancy, but at least they don’t have holes in one toe and both heels.

With that plus the cost of buying a couple drinks, he’ll probably have to choose between paying for food, gas, or his electric bill until his next paycheck clears. Carol’s got him doing some work around the diner sometimes, so maybe she’ll let him have some leftovers at the end of the night. They throw a bunch of stuff away each night—he’s seen them at it.

He has the whole day off, so after buying shoes he takes another $5 he can barely afford and goes to the laundromat. Even clean and hanging to keep it from getting wrinkled, the cheap green shirt looks pretty dismal when he remembers how Paul had looked the last time he’d seen him, practically glowing in contrast to the grimy walls of the SHU with a crisp blue shirt and an expensive-looking watch.

Why a guy like that wants to go out with him, Daryl has no clue.

—

He gets a clue later that night, fixing a leaky sink in the diner while Bob and T-Dog, the manager and one of the chefs, start talking about women—after Carol and Sophia had gone up for the night, of course.

“Hurry it up, folks. I got a hot date tonight.”

“You got a girlfriend? _You_?” Bob replies. The two are always ragging on each other in a way Daryl associates specifically with black folks—a kind of teasing that was more direct, but somehow also gentler, than what he was used to from Merle’s crowd. (And Lord, what would Merle say if he could see Daryl right now?)

They rag on him, too, but he’s awkward about it. He doesn’t want to accidentally say something that crosses the line between funny and offensive.

“First date. She’s a college girl, friend of my cousin’s. Works at some fancy office downtown, and she is fine as _hell_.”

“What’s she doing with you, then? Charity?” Daryl says, a little relieved when both men laugh.

“Or is she looking for a bit of rough?” Bob suggests, grinning.

“Man, a girl this pretty… if she’s just looking for a fun night on the wrong side of the tracks, hoooo boy, I can do that. Don’t mind that at all.”

“You live in a condo,” Daryl points out from under the sink, giving one last twist with his wrench. That hardly qualifies as the wrong side of the tracks in his mind.

The joking continues until Bob finally locks up after them, but Daryl’s too lost in thought to pay much attention anymore. He doesn’t even say thank you when T-Dog hands him something called a quiche lorraine that hadn’t sold that morning to take home for supper.

Upstairs Daryl wolfs it down (it’s not half-bad) and strips down for the night, then brushes his teeth with a little more force than strictly necessary.

Before crawling into bed, he replaces the green shirt hanging on the bathroom door with his black t-shirt. Then, after another moment, he drapes Merle’s old angel wing vest over the door.

—

The next day he sleeps in, eats lunch at the diner, cleans up his place, and is still showered and dressed an hour before he has to leave. Realizing that he’s sweating, he then takes everything off again and paces in his cheap Walmart boxers.

“If he’s just looking for a fun night on the wrong side of the tracks, a bit of rough, I can do that.”

Saying it out loud doesn’t help much.

—

He takes Merle’s bike instead of his rusty old truck, because he really, really wants to get laid.

He’d been worried that a couple drinks at some fancy bar would bankrupt him, but the place doesn’t look that fancy from the outside, at least. _Maybe he doesn’t want to take you somewhere he might run into friends._

“Daryl! Hey!”

Turning, he sees Paul approaching from the parking lot behind him. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, his hair spilling down his shoulders. It’s noticeably longer than it had been at the prison.

“Paul,” Daryl says, his mouth dry with nerves. Fuck, he’s handsome.

Paul beams at him, which loosens the knot in his chest a smidge. “It’s great to see you again. Come on, let’s grab a table.”

It’s only awkward for the first few minutes, when Paul tries to ask him about Merle. Then Daryl asks something he’s wanted to know for months, now: “Where’d you learn to fight like that? Some kinda FBI training?”

“Martial arts as a kid, then competitively for awhile…” and Paul’s off, talking about a YMCA in Seattle and college competitions, long before the FBI came knocking. He’d told Daryl some of it in the cell, but Daryl prefers letting him repeat himself to reminding him.

“What about you? Where did you learn to fix cars?”

“My uncle, some. Then Merle,” Daryl says, keeping it short. The guy’s a goddamn FBI agent, how excited could he possibly get about a grease monkey’s life story?

But before he can ask another question, though, Paul says, “How old were you?”

“Eight or nine, when I first got roped in to help.” He drinks deeply from his Bud Light, the cheapest beer they’d had on tap. He remembers he was in fourth grade because Mrs. Matson at school was always nagging him about homework.

He’d been a good student before, but once the chop shop got going, he was usually too busy for homework.

“Oh, you didn’t like it at first?”

“Nah.”

“Why not?” And Paul looks so earnest, like he really wants to hear about Daryl’s childhood, that he momentarily suspects that the fed is working another case.

Not that it would matter. Daryl isn’t a criminal, and all the other people in his stories are dead now. “At first they only let me do boring shit, like handing over tools, getting beers from the fridge.” And changing over license plates, chemically stripping bumper stickers, vacuuming out the interiors of the cars they’d stolen and wanted to resell… “But they’d make me stick around for hours in case they wanted me. Then later Uncle Jesse would teach me some, on slow days.”

“Jesse Jones, your mother’s brother?”

Biting his thumb, Daryl nods. He’d forgotten that Paul’s probably read his uncle’s rap sheet.

—

Daryl keeps expecting Paul to move things along to his place, but Paul just keeps jabbering instead. They’ve talked about music, action movies, and growing up in the South versus the Northwest, and somehow it hasn’t gotten awkward again.

Daryl’s telling him a stupid story about the guys at the shop racing a car they’d fixed up when he sees Paul glance at his watch. Breaking off in mid-sentence, he asks, “Time to head out?”

“Yeah… sorry. I’ve got an early morning. Let me close us out.”

“I can-”

“You drove all the way out here.” Before Daryl can argue, Paul’s giving his card to the bartender.

“I’ll give you cash,” Daryl says aggressively as he signs the bill.

“Alright. Or you can pay next time?”

Stumbling over the idea of _next time_ , Daryl follows him out of the bar without replying.

“Merle’s bike?” Paul gestures as they round the corner to the parking lot. The light’s dim, but Daryl can still see the outlines of Paul’s lean arm muscles.

He licks his lip. _Come on, invite me to your place. I’m good for it._ “How’d you know?”

“Guess you just don’t strike me as the Nazi type,” Paul replies, gesturing to the SS decal.

Blushing deeply, Daryl looks at the bike to avoid looking at Paul. He’d clean forgot that was there. “Yeah, it’s Merle’s. I meant to take that shit off, I just- I haven’t-”

“Daryl, it’s fine.”

“Oh yeah? Nazis are fine?”

“Well, no,” Paul says, and shit, now it’s awkward again.

They stand silent for a moment, Daryl waiting for the invitation to accompany Paul home for his ‘bit of rough,’ if he hasn’t fucked it all up too badly for that.

“Can I text you about maybe getting dinner next week?”

“What?” Daryl whips his head up to look at him. _He’d been serious about a ‘next time’... Christ, why?_

“Dinner.” Paul smiles like he’s biting back a laugh. “Next week.”

“You want to have dinner with me?”

“Unless you didn’t have a good time tonight-”

“Nah. I mean, yeah, dinner- dinner’s good.”

“Great,” Paul says, and then suddenly there are lips just beside Daryl’s mouth, gentle, just an impression. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Dizzy, confused, and inordinately happy over a goddamn peck on the cheek, Daryl doesn’t even notice what kind of car Paul drives off in.

—

The week flies by, uneventful besides Daryl cutting a gash into his thumb because he was distracted at work.

Dale makes him take the rest of the afternoon off to go see a doctor, only there’s no way he can afford a doctor, so he puts a butterfly strip over the cut and sits on his ass at home, thinking.

He’s always considered himself a good judge of character, but he’s beginning to wonder. He can’t figure out Rick and Michonne, he can’t figure out Carol, and now Paul… shit.

Somehow, that kiss on the cheek feels more faggy than getting on his knees for Paul would have done.

God, he still doesn’t have the first clue about Paul.

—

For dinner Paul picks the place again, some taco joint a few miles away from Daryl’s apartment.

Daryl wears the green shirt, the button down. He thinks he probably looks ridiculous.

—

“Wow, you look nice,” is the first thing Paul says to him. Daryl had been a little late, so Paul’s already sitting in a booth eating chips and salsa.

“Uh, thanks.” Paul’s really staring, too, eyes moving up and down Daryl’s body openly enough that anyone in the restaurant would be able to tell he’s queer.

It doesn’t bother Daryl as much as he’d expect.

—

Their conversation is a little more stilted this time, at least at first. Paul mentions being frustrated that he’s not in the field, and Daryl tries to follow a slightly complicated explanation of how agents get assigned cases. He sweats a little, worried he’ll say something that reveals exactly how stupid he is.

Then Paul subsides into silence, and Daryl really feels stupid then, because he can’t think of a single goddamn thing to say. The other man seems nervous tonight, and he definitely hadn’t been on their first date.

_What the hell does that mean?_

“I need to be upfront about something,” Paul says, and alright, here it is, the speech Daryl’s been prepared for, about 'keeping it casual' and 'just fun, nothing more.'

Only instead Paul says, “I can’t handle- I’m not saying this to be judgy, I swear, but- I can’t handle dating someone who uses.”

Daryl blinks at him. _Dating_.

Paul continues, “And the last time I saw you, before last week I mean, you were coming down from a heroin binge. And I get it, why that happened. I understand. But if that’s a regular thing-”

“It ain’t.” Daryl frowns at the booth table, which is covered in goofy local advertisements and some bits of lettuce from his tacos. “I, um, smoked some weed, when I got outta prison. It helped me pull off the harder stuff.” He doesn’t tell him about the oxy—that had only been once, a fluke.

“Alright. I’m sorry I brought it up on a second date, I know that’s weird. It’s just, my mother was-” Biting his lip, Paul broke eye contact. “I grew up in foster care, because my mother was a junkie.”

“I’m sorry.” He is sorry, and he’s surprised. He’d assumed that part of Paul’s cover had been a lie. He’s known a lot of people who grew up in the system, and none of them had turned out like Paul.

It’s further proof of how extraordinary he is.

“Thank you. We don’t have to talk about it or anything, but it’s… a deal breaker, I guess, for me. No matter how much I like you, it’s not something I can have in my life. So if we’re going to keep seeing each other, I had to ask.”

“You really want to?”

“To what? To keep seeing you?” Paul smiles and takes Daryl’s hand on top of the table, and the waitress walks by but Daryl doesn’t even give a shit that she can see them holding hands like a couple of pansies. “My work schedule is crazy, and the way we met was… well. But I spent four months thinking about you, hoping you’d call. So yeah, I really do want to keep seeing you.”

Daryl’s going to kiss him in the parking lot. Maybe more than kiss him, if Paul will let him.

—

Except none of that happens, because Paul’s cell phone rings, and suddenly he’s rushing out the door to work, even though it’s 9:00 on a Friday night.

It’s fine, though, completely fine, because Paul wants to keep seeing him and Daryl’s got just enough cash to cover the check and a decent tip.

—

Paul texts him the next morning from Florida. He and his team have been posted there for a few weeks.

Even then, everything’s still fine. Paul wants to keep seeing him, and maybe in a few weeks Daryl will have more than one nice shirt to wear on dates.

 

**Month 6**

“You haven’t talked about him.”

“Huh?”

“Paul Monroe. Your boyfriend.”

Daryl glares at Rick over his beer. He’s slumped on Rick’s couch watching football, and if it wasn’t tied at the end of the third quarter he’d leave right now to avoid this conversation.

“I’m just saying, it doesn’t have to be some kind of big secret. I already know you’ve been texting him nonstop.”

That’s it. Daryl’s going to have to figure out a way to get cable at his apartment. “What, are you tapping my phone, pig?”

“Shut up.” Rick’s eyes are on the car commercial playing onscreen, but still Daryl thinks he sees him roll his eyes. “I’m a police officer, I’m observant. You never used to be on your phone this much. Plus you left it sitting on the table when you went to help Michonne wash the dishes and his name popped up three times.”

“Man, quit it. Your kids are in the next room.”

“So?”

“ _So?_ So, they’re kids. You want them to hear me talk about that? About how I’m a- how I’m not-”

Something complicated passes over Rick’s face, but Daryl can’t parse it. “Judy’s godparents are gay—Eric, a lawyer at Michonne’s firm, and his husband. My kids aren’t going to be shocked by someone dating a man, Daryl.”

That shuts Daryl up for a solid five minutes.

“He’s on a case.”

“What?”

“Paul. He’s in Florida. Some kind of organized crime ring. I don’t know, he couldn’t tell me much.”

“Has it been hard, just starting out a relationship with him traveling so much?”

This is too fucking weird. “Why you care all of a sudden?”

“I talk about Michonne all the time.”

“That’s-” different. It’s _different_ , however much Rick wants to pretend like it’s the same thing. Like Daryl’s normal, like his life could ever fits into this neat little suburban fantasy Rick lives in.

Gay godparents. Jesus Christ.

“Daryl, come on. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

He almost wants to lash out, to jeer, to mock and deny.

He doesn’t, though, because they _are_. Rick might be the first real friend he’s ever had.

“I don’t think it’s serious or nothing. Like, it ain’t a ‘relationship,’ you know? We’d gone on two dates, then he had to ship out.”

“That sucks.”

Daryl shrugs.

“Still, if he’s keeping in touch this much while he’s gone, he must be pretty interested.”

Gulping down the rest of his beer, Daryl pretends to focus on the tackle replay on screen. He waits as long as he can stand before he asks, “You think?”

“Sure.”

“He says he wants to fly up for a weekend.” Daryl blushes as he says it, but the offer has been driving him nuts—it’s a relief to have someone to talk to about it. “He’s working a lot, but he’s got a weekend off coming up.”

“Just to get away from the investigation, or...”

“For me,” Daryl clarifies. “He says he’d usually just stays at the hotel and sleeps when he gets time off, but instead he wants to fly up to, uh, see me.”

“And yet you don’t think it’s serious?” When Daryl doesn’t answer, he adds, “He talked about you, at the debrief.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Yep. He kept it professional, but it was obvious he admired you. And he argued hard with the D.A. about the exculpatory value of Merle’s written confession. Said you were as honorable a man as he’d ever met.”

Face red, Daryl stares at the empty beer bottle in his hands. “He barely knows me.”

“And yet he’s already got you pegged,” Rick says, and Daryl can tell he’s not kidding.

“Christ, are you a fag, too?” He has to say it, has to ruin the nice moment. He doesn’t know how else to respond.

“Daryl, please. The children are in the next room,” Rick says, mock-serious.

Then, thank God, there’s an interception, and they’re both sucked into the game again.

—

Paul calls him unexpectedly that Wednesday. Despite being in the middle of a smog check Daryl answers, glancing around to make sure none of the guys are to close by.

“Hey, sorry to call when you’re at work. I, um, wanted to let you know, though, that I won’t be able to fly back this weekend. It’ll probably be next month before I’m home.”

“Oh. Ok.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry, I really thought I’d have this weekend off, but now… well. They need me here. Hopefully it means the case will wrap up more quickly, at least.”

“Yeah.”

“I did warn you, I have to travel for work a lot. I'm not usually gone this long at a stretch, but-”

“It’s fine, man. Don't even worry about it, I get it.” And he does get it. He’s just having a hard time shaking the disappointment. Rick had thought this visit meant things were going to get serious between them, and now Paul’s cancelling.

It's stupid to read into it, though. The man is doing an important job, of course he can't fly back willy-nilly to get laid.

“Alright.” Paul clears his throat. “I really am sorry. And, look, we haven’t talked about this, but just to be clear, I understand that you’ll probably have other dates lined up and, you know. Other stuff. I’m not expecting you to sit around waiting for me, I'm just hoping you’ll let me take you out again when I finally get back in town.”

He says it casually, like he thinks it’s obvious that Daryl would have a full dance card, and the realization hits him that Paul has been fucking people this whole time he’s been in Florida. Of course he has.

_Quit it. You aren’t his damn wife._

“Ok,” he says. “Yeah, I- I want to go out again, when you get back. Whenever that is.” _Christ, could you sound any more pathetic?_  “I mean, if we’re both still unattached and all.”

He thinks it’s an improvement, even though Paul’s voice is a little distant when he says goodbye.

The cold comfort of his pretense that he might go find himself a boyfriend in Paul’s absence—as if Paul isn’t far more interesting, smart, and attractive than anyone else Daryl could reasonably expect to date—fades quickly, leaving him anxious and regretful. He should have just been honest. But he resists the urge to call him back, and the even more embarrassing urge to call Rick for advice. Instead Daryl slips his phone back in his pocket and gets back to work.

He’d been hoping to earn enough for some basic household goods in case Paul wanted to come to his place, but even if that’s not happening, Lord knows he still needs the money.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this cute idea that I'd publish the 16 months in 4-month chunks... but then I remembered that it takes me forrrrr-fucking-everrrr to write anything, so by the time I managed to write four months it would be Christmas.
> 
> So instead I'm getting the months out in smaller batches as I write them.
> 
> Not beta'd, and apparently my mind isn't what it used to be. In a recent update on another fic I sent Carol to Hilltop while simultaneously writing her talking to Daryl in Rick's living room in Alexandria, sooooo... I'm sleep deprived and scatterbrained and saving my writing in multiple places across three separate devices. Have mercy on me and let me know if you notice a mistake like that XD


	4. Months 7 & 8

**Month 7**

Paul definitely doesn’t text as much in the next week, and their conversation peters out entirely for about a few days until Daryl gets a message clearly meant for someone else: **Home soon, I’ll take care of it then.**

 **Wrong person** , Daryl sends back. Then, biting his lip, he adds, **Glad to hear you’ll be home soon, though. Maybe we can get dinner and actually eat it.** He adds a smiley face so Paul will know he’s not sore about it.

God, he hates texting.

**Oh, sorry! That was supposed to go to Walsh, our firearms training guy. He’s messaged me about a hundred times that I’m late for renewing my assessment.**

No response to Daryl’s other remark.

It takes Daryl ten minutes to craft his reply. **I’ve seen you fight, you don’t need a gun anyway.**

Paul replies with two emoji, a smiley face and a guy high-kicking.

Instead of texting what he wants to say ( _What the fuck does that mean? Why are you being so fucking weird?_ ) Daryl types out, **Been busy at the garage, hows your case going?** as if he’d only just noticed the halt in communication.

 **It’s wrapping up. Still want to get drinks or something when I’m back?** Drinks, not dinner as Daryl had offered.

He throws the phone across the room, where it lands harmlessly on the couch he’d picked up from Goodwill the day before.

Then he walks over, picks it up again, and texts **Sure**.

—

Paul doesn’t reply for another ten days.

When he does hear from him again, it’s not a text, it’s a phone call. Daryl answers on the first ring, not caring that he’s smearing grease all over his phone.

“‘Lo?”

“Daryl, hi! I’m back in town! I’m free tonight, and, well, who knows when they’ll make me leave town again, so… so I was thinking… maybe I could cook dinner for you? Sorry, I know it’s last minute. I can come to your place if that’s easier.”

“Uh,” Daryl says. His immediate instinct is to agree to anything Paul suggests, but he knows the other man will look down on his grubby little apartment. “I ain't got much of a kitchen.”

_Calm down. Calm down calm down calm down, you don’t want him to hear how fucking relieved you are-_

“Well, I’m not much of a cook. What are we working with?”

“Hot plate and a microwave.”

Paul laughs, and Daryl tries to ignore the absurd flutter of happiness the sound gives him. “Such a bachelor. What if we go out instead, then head to your place to watch some T.V.?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. I ain’t got cable, though, so… maybe a movie?”

He hates that he doesn’t have the bare minimum, the things Paul assumes everyone must have.

“Sounds great. Just text me your address and I’ll pick you up. And, um, sorry again that this is so last minute. I just got off the plane, they made the arrests in Florida early this morning.”

“S’fine. What movie do you want to-”

“Whatever you want,” Paul says. “To be perfectly honest, I’m hoping we won’t be watching it for long.”

He hangs up without saying goodbye, the little asshole, and Daryl’s left with half a hard on and an aching excitement low in his gut.

—

Dale, bless him, let’s Daryl leave early without demanding an explanation, maybe because Daryl looks panicked enough that he assumes it’s an emergency.

Paul’s going to come by at seven, and before then, Daryl needs to clean just about everything in the place, including himself. He doesn’t have time to go to a laundromat but he does own a spare set of sheets, now—Carol had given them to him rather than throwing them out—so he swaps out his usual blue set for the softer dove gray. There’s no helping the ratty quilt, but he straightens it out and sets his two pillows at the top of the bed.

It’s just a mattress on the floor, really. Not a bed. Daryl stares at it disconsolately for a moment before snapping out of it and going to clean his tiny kitchen table (which is really just a card table) and counter. After sweeping the wood floor and wiping down the minuscule bathroom with a disinfectant wipe, there isn’t much else to do. The place is small. It’s obviously an old building. His furniture, such as it is, is cheap, scratched up, and battered.

_You can take the white trash out of the trailer park, but you can’t…_

Telling his subconscious to fuck off, Daryl jumps in the shower. Most of his clothes are dirty, but the green shirt isn’t—he hasn’t had a reason to wear it, since Paul’s been out of town. That and the jeans he’d worn to work are his best bet, even though they have a little grease on one knee. His only pair of clean underwear has four holes in various locations, so he opts not to wear underwear… maybe Paul will think that’s sexy?

God, why did he have to come over on a Thursday? Daryl has Friday off, he’d have had clean clothes and a fuller fridge by then.

He hears people on the stairs outside before he can even put on shoes, his hair still dripping into his eyes. A moment later he realizes there are two sets of footsteps.

“So how do you know Daryl?” Carol asks, and for fuck’s safe, why is she escorting Paul up the stairs?

He waits for Paul to say something about prison, or to make something up.

“We’re kind of dating, I guess. I mean, it’s new, only our third date, but-”

“Paul!” Daryl says, snapping open the door. It’s too late, of course. Carol knows, and the surprise is written all over her face.

He can’t tell if the coldness she radiates then is real or all in his head. It's not like they've ever talked about whether she's against 'gay lifestyles' or however people phrase it these days.

“He came into the diner. I guess you forgot to tell him how to get to your room.”

“Um. Sorry.”

She raises a shoulder, and she’s definitely not being herself. “It’s no problem. You boys have a good night.”

Daryl’s frowning after her when Paul says, “I have a place in mind, but… could we take your motorcycle?”

—

They go to a fancy Italian place for dinner. Daryl’s driven by it a few times—it’s only ten minutes from his place—but never thought about actually eating there.

He excuses himself to the bathroom almost immediately to try to rub a little more of the grease off of his jeans.

It’s hopeless.

Back at the table, Daryl can’t stop staring at Paul. It’s not like he’d forgotten how good looking he is, but he’s wearing a suit tonight, the green shirt bringing out his eyes. The candlelight makes his hair shine.

Daryl looks down at his dirty nails, then moves his hands under the table.

“I ran out on you last time and left you with the bill, so I’m paying tonight,” Paul says after taking a sip of water. "I insist."

Knowing he can’t afford this place anyway, Daryl nods. He can’t think of anything to say. Paul had already ordered a bottle of wine and oysters while he was in the bathroom, and according to the menu the oysters alone were $20.

He’s never had oysters in his goddamn life. He has to watch Paul eat one before he dares to try. Then, thinking of how expensive they were, he doesn’t eat another until Paul practically forces him to.

The oysters are pretty gross, honestly, but he likes the wine. He has to stop himself from checking how much it cost.

They’re talking about normal shit, Paul's flight and work at the garage and Florida's weather and football nights at Rick’s, but it feels charged. They’re sitting close at the circular table. As Paul talks he touches Daryl’s shoulder, his arm. His thigh.

“So how do you know Carol?”

“Landlady,” Daryl says stupidly.

“I meant, how did you meet her?” Paul says, tone teasing, and suddenly his hand is burning hot against Daryl’s upper arm for several seconds.

God, Daryl just wants to get out of here and take Paul back to his place.

“Uh. Rick knew her, not sure how. Her husband died last year, and now she owns the building, runs the restaurant. She needed some extra income for the mortgage, I guess.”

Paul’s manner is perfectly friendly, but Daryl thinks he sees something assessing behind his smile. “Well, she seems lovely.”

“She is,” Daryl says, thoroughly confused but determined to do Carol justice. “She’s got a kid, Sophia. I’m teaching her to work on cars some.” It’s a weird hobby for a girl, he knows, but she’d seemed interested and Carol had encouraged it.

Paul’s smile becomes more genuine. “How old is she?”

“Maybe twelve? I’m not sure. She’s a good kid, works at the restaurant after school most days.” She reminds him of himself at that age, scared of her own shadow and spending her free time working instead of playing. He doesn’t say that to Paul, though.

“I’m sure Carol appreciates having you around.”

He’d spent less than five minutes with Carol, what possible problem could he have with her? “I guess. I help around the diner on weekends.”

The waiter brings their food, interrupting the conversation.

—

Daryl had ordered some cheap pasta and is shocked at how small the portion size is when it comes out. He wishes he’d eaten more of the slimy oysters.

Fortunately Paul gets halfway through his steak before saying, “I’m stuffed. Ate too much for lunch, I guess. Do you want to finish this, or…”

Daryl’s too busy wolfing it down to notice Paul’s soft smile, watching him.

—

“Are you sure I can’t-” Daryl begins as Paul sets out his credit card for the waiter.

“I’m sure,” Paul says. “How about I let you pay for breakfast?”

His gaze is so heated—it has been, on and off, the whole evening—that Daryl has to look away. He studies the offwhite tablecloth, a blush heating his face. “Yeah, ok.”

—

The ride back on the motorcycle is torture. Paul’s hard behind him and he’s not trying to hide it, clinging as close as he can, his thighs spread just enough to accommodate Daryl between them. When they’re stopped at a red light his hand sneaks to Daryl’s stomach, then Daryl’s crotch, rubbing his erection gently through his jeans where anyone could see if they looked closely.

Daryl guns it the rest of the way home.

Paul kisses him messily halfway through getting his key in the door, and Daryl almost drops the damn thing. His hands are everywhere, and they’re still outside for God’s sake, it’s not decent.

It’s not decent, but it takes everything Daryl has not to pin him to the door right there. Instead he tries to get to his knees as soon as they’re inside, but Paul stops him, drags him like a caveman to the bed, and tosses him onto it with ease.

That should not be a turn on, being manhandled like that. Fuck.

He’s forgotten to be embarrassed about his apartment. Watching Paul strip in front of him, the nice suit jacket thrown to the floor like it had offended him, Daryl couldn’t give less of a shit about the ratty quilt on his bed. He forgets about his own clothes, forgets about his scars and his gut and his weird-shaped eyes, because he’s been jerking off thinking about Paul like this since the prison.

Would Paul have let him fuck him back then? He’d been undercover, Daryl had been his mark, but maybe to get information, or maybe if he thought no one would find out, maybe he would have-

Paul interrupts the thought by yanking him down the mattress by the ankles and starting in on the button of his jeans. Within seconds they’re both naked, and Paul can’t seem to decide what he wants to do to him first. He licks up his throat while jerking him off for a few seconds, then changes his mind and kisses him instead, climbing into his lap and dragging their bodies closer closer closer. Daryl let’s his hands wander, greedy, over soft skin and hard muscle. Then they land on Paul’s ass and stay there, fingers prying his cheeks apart slightly with the force of tugging the smaller man against him, their dicks bumping together without finesse.

It’s good, but Paul breaks away and shoves him on his back with one hand, still seeming just this side of frantic. He dives down, and before Daryl knows what’s happening his dick is halfway down his throat.

Paul commits to the blowjob, thank God, bobbing his head and sucking without trying to move on to some other configuration. His hand finds Daryl’s and moves it to his head, so he holds on to the long hair, pulling it occasionally for the sheer pleasure of listening to Paul moan around his dick. He wishes he could see his face, but Paul isn’t putting on a show. He’s not looking up, just working his mouth around Daryl’s cock, spit running everywhere.

Then Paul does pull back, simultaneously prising Daryl’s legs apart, but it’s not for long. He lowers his head again to lick Daryl’s taint, then sucks his balls into his mouth, and Daryl makes an inhuman noise as his tongue starts questing even lower.

Daryl isn’t used to having sex like this. He’s used to quick and dirty, barely undressing, getting each other off as quick as possible and then going their separate ways.

This is... dirty, yes, but not quick at all.

He squirms and bucks helplessly, everything wet, not knowing what Paul’s mouth is going to do next. His tongue slides  _inside_ him for a moment, an entirely new sensation, and Daryl’s glad he’d had the sense to clean himself so thoroughly that afternoon.

The onslaught keeps up, Paul apparently not needing a break to rest his jaw or, hell, let Daryl touch him for a goddamn minute. He fingers Daryl open as he sucks, apparently avoiding his prostate because Daryl only notices the stretch. Paul’s head doesn’t budge from between his legs, occasionally building a rhythm that _almost_ makes Daryl come before switching it up again, biting Daryl's hip or scratching up his thigh before moving on to kitten-lick his balls some more.

He’s not letting him come on purpose.

Fuck. The thought just brings Daryl even closer.

He does it again and again until Daryl’s begging incoherently, shamelessly, to come, his mind a mess, legs thrown open, one hand clenched in Paul’s hair in a desperate attempt to keep him in one spot. He tries to grab at his dick with his other hand, only to have Paul pin it to the mattress.

“Please, shit, Paul, please, I need- whatever you- please-”

“Let me fuck you,” Paul whispers against his stomach, and Daryl groans and nods.

He hasn’t let anyone fuck him in more than a decade.

“Say it.”

“You can.”

“I can what?”

“You can fuck me,” Daryl says, much louder than he intended.

Paul reaches over off the bed and pulls his wallet from his discarded pants, taking out a condom and a little sachet of lube.

Daryl thinks they’ll fuck like this, face to face, but Paul flips him over and pulls him up onto shaky knees that feel like jello beneath him. They’re only upright for a few thrusts before Daryl finds himself knocked flat on his stomach by the force of it.

The soft sheet against his dick is too much for him and he bites down on his hand and comes, seeming to take forever to empty. Paul fucks him at that angle for another minute before pulling him back to his knees and finishing inside him with a low moan.

—

 _God, it’s only 9:30_ , Daryl thinks in a daze, staring at the microwave clock while Paul’s in the bathroom taking care of the condom. He’s laying on his back feeling vaguely embarrassed and uneasy. It’s a good thing they aren’t at Paul’s, because riding his motorcycle like this wouldn’t be comfortable.

Not that he could be mad, exactly. He’d begged for it, then begged for it harder.

It’s vaguely humiliating, how he’s just behaved. He’s a fag, but he’s never been like _that_ before, a bitch in heat panting for a cock in his ass.

Problem is, it’s hands down the best sex he’s ever had in his life.

Paul comes out of the bathroom, tilts his head down at Daryl, and says, “Want a milkshake?”

—

T-Dog lets them put their milkshakes in to-go cups. Daryl had agreed to it because he’d have agreed to pretty much anything Paul asked for, but he knows he’s effectively outed himself at the diner—first with Carol, and now walking around the place with Paul, both of them smelling like sex and looking they’d survived a hurricane.

He tries not to think about it as they sneak back up to his apartment and sit together on the bed, clothed but barefoot.

“I’m not sure that was the best idea,” Paul says as they settle, and Daryl thinks he’s talking about the milkshakes until he sees his expression.

“Oh.” The pain is proportional to how good the sex had been, an equal and opposite reaction.

“Not like that,” Paul says, like Daryl’s being stupid, and through his emotional whiplash Daryl decides that that’s not entirely fair of him. “I don’t regret it. It’s… I…”

“Spit it the fuck out, Rovia.”

“Monroe,” Paul says with a smile.

Fuck. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head, like it’s no big deal. “My handler, Maggie—she’s probably my best friend—she says relationships are about communication.”

He pauses as if waiting for Daryl to respond, but Daryl isn’t eager to jump back into this conversation until he knows where it’s going.

Paul continues, “I do this, after cases. It's a- a pattern, with me. Not _this_ exactly, I guess, but I go to a fancy bar, pick up a hot guy. Go to his place. Then I get as far as I can with him and forget to leave my number in the morning.”

Daryl thinks, embarrassed, of exactly how far he’d let Paul get.

“But I’ve never been with anyone like you. I don't think I've ever _met_ anyone like you.”

“Pft, people like me are your job.”

Shaking his head dismissively but otherwise leaving that statement alone, Paul says, “I like undercover work. I like to travel. It makes it hard to have any kind of serious relationship, though, when you’re gone so much.”

“I get it, if this ain’t gonna be a serious thing,” Daryl says quickly, almost glad to finally be able to say it when it’s been on the tip of his tongue since their first date. “We’ve had three dates, I didn’t-”

“No. No, that’s the opposite of what I’m trying to say,” Paul frowns at him. “Unless _you_ don’t want anything serious.”

It’s not a question Daryl’s actually considered, for all the time he’s spent thinking about the inverse. “I... I do, yeah. I mean I, I want to see you, when you’re around. See what happens, you know?”

After an awkward pause, Paul says, “I sent you that text on purpose. The one I said was for Walsh.”

“Why?” _And also, what the fuck?_

“It was juvenile, I know. I just… if you were dating someone else, I didn’t want to presume that you’d be happy to hear from me. My last boyfriend and I broke up over that. He felt lonely when I was gone, wanted an open relationship… and then he fell for the other guy.”

“I’m sorry,” Daryl says. Then, manning up, he adds, “I was always gonna wait around for you to get back, though.”

Paul smiles and slurps his milkshake.

—

“Have you ever had a serious boyfriend?” Paul asks later. They'd tried making out for awhile, but both felt too lazy and full of ice cream to really get anything going again. So instead they’d showered, and now were toweling off and getting ready to go to sleep.

“You’ve read my file.”

“Yeah, well, I read your file before we met and yet still somehow completely misread you.”

Daryl sighs and stretches his back, wondering if it’s weird to sleep naked. Deciding it is, he goes to pull his faded plaid pajama bottoms off the shelf. He'll leave his shirt off; Paul saw his scars all the way back at the prison. “You might have to interview me as a murder witness, if I tell you.”

“What?” Paul sits up from the bed where he’d been toweling his long hair dry.

“Calm down, Agent. The bad guy’s already dead.” Paul doesn’t look any less alarmed, so he continues, “I was twenty. There was this guy, Caesar. Everyone knew he was a- he was gay.” Daryl’s fingers twitch. He wants a cigarette. “Most folks didn’t bother him about it, since he was running guns for some well-known bosses. He met me through one of Merle’s buddies and started hanging around at the bar I worked at. We got to being friends, I guess. I kinda knew what was wrong with me, that I was, y’know. But I hadn’t done shit about it until Caesar.”

“Not Caesar Martinez,” Paul says, but the horror in his voice tells Daryl he already knows the answer.

Daryl nods anyway. He wonders if Paul has seen pictures of the body, what was left of it.

“My daddy. He never said anything about it, I never could have proved it was him. But everybody knew. He caught us together, and then Caesar was gone. Merle was freaking the fuck out after the police found the body, told me to keep it in my pants or cut it off. He sent hookers—women—to try to fix me, or at least convince daddy that I was fixed, but..”

Paul is staring at him with huge eyes, and Daryl knows it’s time to shut the hell up. No one wants to hear shit like this.

“Sorry. Guess that killed the mood.”

“Don’t apologize.” Paul sits very still for a long moment, then half-rises to pull him forward, startling him, and rearranged his limbs until Daryl is laying in his arms. “You’re a miracle.”

“What?”

“You are.”

Squirming, Daryl turns to face him. “I’m a mechanic with a high school diploma.”

“You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met,” Paul says, pushing their foreheads together.

“You don’t know me that well yet.” And he’s going to be in for some serious disappointment later, thinking that way about Daryl.

“I know enough.” Paul kisses his forehead, and Daryl is so goddamn mystified by this guy. “Now go to sleep.”

—

He wakes up to an empty apartment and a note beside him. **I couldn’t leave my number because you already have it, so I left you a croissant and a coffee instead. I know I said you could buy breakfast, but I got called in for a couple hours. Lunch this weekend?**

—

The croissant is a lovely gesture, but it's far from enough food for breakfast, so Daryl heads down to the diner for some bacon and eggs.

T-Dog comes out of the kitchen and over to his spot at the bar. Shoulders tensing with each step he takes, Daryl waits.

"You sly dog," T-Dog says, grinning. "That was the prettiest man I've ever seen."

"Well, back off," Daryl replies, relaxing all at once. "He's taken."

Laughing, T-Dog snaps him with his dish towel and goes back into the kitchen.

 

 

**Month 8**

Daryl Dixon has a boyfriend, like a character on Will & Grace or some shit.

They get dinner during the week sometimes, and have a ton of sex every weekend that Paul is in town. It’s becoming a problem finding time to do his usual weekend chores, and he hasn’t seen Rick in three weeks.

For some reason Paul always insists on driving to his place. He even buys Daryl a coffee maker, saying it's a selfish gift because he doesn’t want to have to walk down to the diner in the morning every time he spends the night. They do eat there a lot, though, and Paul seems to make peace with Carol.

Daryl never does find out why they’d been so weirdly hostile to each other at first.

They text. Paul calls him sometimes when he’s out of town, one time talking so dirty that Daryl jacked it right there with Paul still on the phone, leaving Paul sounding amused and flustered before he hastily hung up to take care of himself.

Daryl has a boyfriend, and he tries not to think about how long it’ll last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually my chapters are like 400 words, so if anyone sees any mistakes please let me know XD

**Author's Note:**

> I'm embracing my worst fic-writing habits: too may WIPs at once + revisiting super old fics.


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